


Springtime in the Blitz [An Omen of Holy Water]

by vol_ctrl



Series: The History of Omens [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Bathing/Washing, Bathtubs, Caretaking, Comfort, Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Tea, Wings, drunk demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-10 20:00:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19911355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl/pseuds/vol_ctrl
Summary: Aziraphale is touched by Crowley's efforts to make it all up to him. But, they are still not impervious to outside forces. A surprise guest causes a stir and reinforces the need for caution.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome welcome, kittens! Holy wow here we are, part four.
> 
> This isn't exactly a short part, but it takes place in a matter of hours instead of days.
> 
> Thank you to returning readers! And welcome to those here for the first time. There are some parts ahead of this one in the series, The History of Omens, which you can navigate under "Series" under the tags for this story.
> 
> Enjoy~

In 1935, Germany appropriated the symbol of holy wrath for its own with the invention of the blitzkrieg. “Blitz” meaning lightning, and “krieg” meaning war. The Nazi forces rained down five times in the first four months of 1941. However, it was a foggy April night that marked the heaviest bombing of London--a bombing so great it would not be matched for the entire rest of the year. It was this night that a clandestine meeting between an angel, some Nazis, a double agent, and one hot-footed demon would end with an explosion coaxed by demonic intervention, and an averted discorporation of one ethereal and one occult entity by divine providence. It was a very busy night for all involved.

Air raid sirens pealed through the night, punctuated by the lumbering falls of bombs like giant footsteps, crushing the city. The flutter of unmitigated love for the demon who had saved his books faltered as reality crashed down around him. The leather handle of the satchel squeaked in Aziraphale’s anxious hands as he looked Heavenward. He stumbled in the rubble of the church--and of course, Crowley was there to catch him.

“I think that’s enough miracles for tonight.” Crowley’s expression mirrored his own. Forlorn. So much unnecessary death… 

“It’s just… terrible.” Aziraphale’s eyes drifted across the smoke-fogged Heavens for answers that he knew wouldn’t come. It was hardly any business of his  _ how  _ the humans fought their wars. War was inevitable. In the end of days, there would be a great war, even for him…

“Can’t keep humans from doing what humans do best.” Crowley said, grimacing as he slid into the Bentley. “Killing and maiming each other. Reported back some of the shit they do to their prisoners--got a commendation for that.”

Aziraphale opened his side of the Bentley and gingerly placed the books on the back seat, cautious as a mother hen. He sat in the passenger seat with a sigh and leaned forward, peering up at the roiling smoke joining the oppressive fog, out across the city glittering with fires like eyes in the rubble.

The Bentley rolled forward, and for once, did not immediately fly like it had demonic wings. The sedate pace didn’t put Aziraphale much at ease, given the circumstances. He looked at Crowley, both grateful and irritated.

“You’ve been making a habit of this.”

“Of what?”

“Saving me.” Aziraphale’s jaw was clenched in a way that made Crowley frown at him.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, incredulous.

Aziraphale had been quite pleased with himself about this whole operation. It felt a little… devious, tricking those Nazis with his pleasant manner and supplicant presentation of the sought-after books of prophecy. It should have gone off without a hitch! Had his woman on the inside actually been… on his side…

“I don’t need you always rescuing me. What if your side caught wind of this?” His voice was sharp, though he was needling at Crowley just as much as at himself.

“Still blew up a church,” Crowley muttered. Truth be told, he  _ was _ putting his neck on the line, popping in to keep Aziraphale from getting discorporated. But that was just his normal modus operandi. What he was thinking about as they drove slowly through the rubble-strewn streets of London was that holy water. Just sitting there.

Aziraphale was never going to get him the insurance he knew he needed. And he needed it more now than ever. Crowley was on his own crusade now--to make it up to Aziraphale for all the shit things he’d done. To show him he meant it, what he’d said that rainy night in his bookshop, stripped down to the bone and laid bare.

Aziraphale felt like a fool. He stared out the window, his soft face drawn in a morose mask. Why did he always trust the good in people? You’d think after all this time, he’d have gotten better at sniffing out lies and deceit. But no--he was trusting. He was soft.

“You see the good in people.” Crowley worked his palms against the steering wheel. He knew that look. Aziraphale was in one of his rare moods. It didn’t suit him. “That’s why you’re an angel.”

“I got…  _ played for a sucker. _ ” He could still hear Mr. Harmony’s lilting accent trying on the phrase. He shut his eyes tight and sighed. “It’s just… so embarrassing. I should have known!” Aziraphale threw his hands out in front of him and slumped into the seat.

Crowley tilted his head and started to agree, but caught himself. “No. I mean--yes. I mean… sorry I was late.” He frowned. “I was hoping to come in a minute earlier and, y’know, save you the embarrassment.”

Aziraphale worked his head to and fro, trying to accept this as salve for his embarrassment. It wasn’t working.

“Only, y’know…” Crowley’s heels still stung a bit in his shoes. He could swear the soles had melted. “Consecrated ground,” he said low, like something that must not be named.

Aziraphale sighed and managed a weary smile. “You  _ did  _ come into a church. Are you insane?” he balked.

_ Crazy things we do for love. _ Crowley’s grin nearly said it all. Maybe he should’ve said it out loud--Aziraphale’s spirits were hardly lifted.

“Maybe we should be working more closely together. Eh? Infiltrate the spy networks, feed each other intel…” Crowley made it sound exciting.

“I’d make a terrible spy.” Aziraphale sank into the window again.

“God, you are  _ moody. _ ” Crowley rolled his eyes and pulled up to the curb.

When they stopped, Aziraphale blinked and looked out the window. They weren’t at the bookshop. He turned to Crowley.

“Come on. Cup of tea. I’ve got… some sort of biscuits.” Crowley got out and paused to look up at the skies. He could feel the growl of planes and shriek of bombs in his bones. But not here. Not over his Bentley. With a stern glare at the air raid a few miles off, he  _ dared  _ those planes to come anywhere near.

Aziraphale opened the door and saw that they were at Crowley’s. He stood up and peered at Crowley over the Bentley. “I should really be at the bookshop. What if--”

“It’ll be safer here. With the two of us.” Crowley drawled without taking his eyes from the sky. He didn’t want Aziraphale moping about the bookshop, sitting alone listening to the bombs and the sirens.

“You don’t need to--” Aziraphale bristled again, but the fight fell out of him when Crowley looked at him, eyebrows raised innocently over his glasses.

“What? I’ve got that- that darling tea or whatever it is that you like so much.”

“ _ Darjeeling, _ ” Aziraphale corrected him, unable to help the smile that came to his lips. Crowley wasn’t trying to protect him like he was incapable of doing it himself--he was caring for him. Aziraphale could feel the love in his affected casual tone. And Crowley hadn’t just protected him tonight--he’d thought of the books when Aziraphale was too wound up to remember them himself.

With a little huff, Aziraphale reached into the Bentley and retrieved his books. “Alright,” he agreed with a sigh.

Crowley grinned and shut his door.


	2. In the Demon's Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale lets his tea get cold, and Crowley offers to draw him a bath.

Crowley’s flat was up a narrow staircase, right above a tailor. He made good use of said tailor--had for a hundred years. He liked living above a tailor, as his narrow frame and penchant for feeling a chill even in the summer required him to get his suits made rather than pick them off the rack. He could always just miracle himself a new suit, but it wasn't the same.

The flat had unusually high ceilings for a simple London abode, and the smooth grey stone of it all was very distinct. It had the effect of a cave--but not a dank, clammy, cold cave. It was more like the inside of a warm crevasse, which suited Crowley’s lingering reptilian taste.

Aziraphale had rarely been in Crowley’s flat. Once, to make sure he got safely to bed after a bender he refused to sober himself up from. And again when he had some particularly exciting news that just couldn’t wait for the post. Crowley had been wearing little more than a silk robe that time, Aziraphale remembered with a bit of heat coming to his cheeks.

Crowley had been over every inch of his bookshop and upstairs flat. Made himself at home. Knew where the kettle and the tea was, knew not to move the books--though he often still would, just to mark his presence there--and knew where Aziraphale kept his favorite sweaters and coats, even when Aziraphale misplaced them. It felt strange to be at Crowley’s purposefully. For more than just a quick drop in.

Crowley seemed to feel so, too, and made a valiant effort not to show it. “Shoes off,” he said, slinking out of his own boots. “Coat, hat.” He gestured vaguely at a rather serpentine coat rack that stood by the door.

Aziraphale smiled politely and hung up his coat and hat, then went to untie his shoes.

“I’ll put the kettle on.” Crowley disappeared into the depths of the cavern-like flat with a relaxed swing of his hips.

As he pulled the laces on his shoes, Aziraphale looked around the spartan entry way. A large painting took up one wall, shades of black on black on black with one, singular line of gold running from top to bottom. There wasn’t even a table to put the post on, just an elegant stand upon which rested an ancient Greek vase in one corner, and a particularly verdant mother-in-law’s tongue in the other. Down the narrow hall, he saw a sculpture took center stage. The hint of extended wings struck him immediately.

He eased out of his shoes without taking his eyes off it. Padding forward, he found the stone floor was warmer than he expected. He walked around to the front of the statue and his eyes followed the strain of wings at full mast, the rippling of muscles captured in stone. It was wrought with peril and struggle. For some reason, it made Aziraphale sad.

He started to drag himself away from it, then realized he’d nearly left his bag of books in the hall and quickly went to retrieve them.

Aziraphale followed more slowly, taking in the sparse art on the walls--some classic, some modern--and the fine rugs that adorned the foyer. He held his precious books in front of him, some little token of his own. The bookshop was, well, a shop, and so accustomed to having various strangers in it. The back room had been practically designed with two occupants in mind, as Aziraphale alone had no use for that many chairs. His flat was small, but cozy.

Crowley’s place felt like an edifice to solitude. It wasn’t cold, but it did feel empty. Lonely, almost. Somewhat unlived-in. He supposed Crowley didn’t spend much time here. Unlike the clutter on every surface of the bookshop, there didn’t seem to be a bit of post or book or jetsam anywhere here. 

Then there were the plants. Dozens of them. Huge, leafy plants, and delicate vines crawling up the walls. He hadn’t realized Crowley kept _so_ many plants… The room had balcony access, but like any good Englishman during the blitz, Crowley had it covered with blackout felt.

Aziraphale spied Crowley’s office. A newspaper on the desk, large bookshelves filled with neat, same-similar rows of books, a globe. The kitchen was equally spartan. No dirty dishes or empty mugs or glasses. Just a gleaming kettle on the black stove. Crowley was looking in a cabinet that had nothing in it except two tins of tea, and a tin of biscuits.

“There’s so much… space,” Aziraphale commented, and meant it as a compliment.

“Ah, yeah. Don’t like cramped spaces.”

Aziraphale thought to bring up that his bookshop was quite the opposite and Crowley made himself very much at home there, but said nothing.

“So quiet, too.” Aziraphale closed his eyes and strained his ears. “Can’t hear the blitz at all.”

“I like it quiet.”

Again, Aziraphale was reminded of their usual flow, where hardly a silence was to be heard for hours as they talked, reminisced, shared stories of their adventures big and small apart.

The climate of their relationship had changed yet again after that stormy ride in the Bentley. There was still caution there, but the unspoken barricade between them was now more of a veil. Aziraphale was wary of Crowley. Wary of letting him close. Wary of giving in to that ache in his heart. After all, maybe Crowley had been right to dismiss it, even if he’d gone too far by leaving.

Crowley, for his part, was patient. Aziraphale could feel the care emanating off him, which only made it more difficult for him to keep the demon at arm’s length. He needed time. Time to see that Crowley wasn’t wound up in some long stint of mania, time to see that Crowley could _give_ him time. Time to sort of his own conflicted emotions. He still felt the intrinsic jolt, that gut reaction, _He’s a_ **_demon_ ** , assail him out of nowhere. _You can’t trust him._

But of course he trusted Crowley. He’d saved him from being discorporated more times than he could count. For centuries, they had split the work, doing the tempting _and_ the blessing--and both Heaven and Hell seemed pleased with the work. One couldn’t trust that sort of thing with just _any_ demon.

“Do you mind if I… check on the books?” Aziraphale asked. “They’re sure to have gotten a bit dusty with all the…”

Crowley glanced over his shoulder with an easy smile. “Course I don’t mind. Make yourself at home, angel.”

Easier said than done. Aziraphale shuffled for a moment, trying to tether himself to something in the space. It was all so drab, almost clinical, even with the welcoming rug that stretched across the stone floor in the living room. Finally, he settled himself on the couch and put his bag down.

Crowley joined him with a cup of tea, and a plate of biscuits. His china was quite like Aziraphale’s. In fact, he might have borrowed a few pieces, as he didn’t have any china of his own. He’d return it.

Aziraphale’s brow knitted in concentration and concern as he carefully extricated the books and brushed the dust from the covers. He muttered to himself, or to the books, Crowley couldn’t be sure which, little admotions to himself for allowing them to come to anything close to harm, little assurances that they were alright.

“See, this is why I have to keep an eye on you.” Crowley said. The tea was growing cold.

Aziraphale blinked as if out of a dream and glanced at Crowley. “What did you say?”

“I don’t know the first thing about taking care of books.”

Aziraphale looked confused. He didn’t quite get it.

“Do I look like I could run a bookshop?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “No, my dear.” His eyes flicked around the stone walls of the tomb-like flat. “I think you’d go mad trying to.” In his distracted state, it failed to register what Crowley was really saying--that he would keep the bookshop running in Aziraphale's absence. Well, more like tend to the collection, as Aziraphale would never forgive him if he actually sold any of his precious volumes.

When his eyes returned to the bag of books, he became suddenly aware of the great amount of dust now scattered in a fine layer around him--on the black couch, the gray floors, the marble coffee table. “Oh, goodness, I didn’t mean to make such a mess,” he whispered.

Crowley brushed his fingers down his front and shook out his tie. “It’s not just the books.” He turned to Aziraphale and combed his fingers through his blond hair, past his ear, then rubbed the dust between his fingers. “I mean, we did _miraculously_ escape a collapsing church. Prolly bits of debris in your pockets.”

“I’ll clean it up,” Aziraphale moved to stand, his scalp tingling where Crowley had touched it.

Crowley caught his arm and pulled him back to the couch. “Stop fussing.” He picked up the cup of tea on its saucer and offered it to Aziraphale with a firm look.

Aziraphale hesitated, then sighed and took the tea with a smile. “Thank you.” 

“Waste of time trying to get all that dust up ‘till you get yourself cleaned up.”

The angel could have made the dust vanish with a flourish of his hand, but he was tired. Something about being betrayed and miracling his way out of an explosion really took it out of him. One of his favorite earthly pleasures was taking a nice bath… But it seemed uncouth to ask to use Crowley’s bath tub purely for himself.

“I could draw you a bath,” Crowley offered, as if reading Aziraphale’s mind.

The angel blushed and put down his tea. “Don’t be silly. I don’t want to put you out.”

“Then we’ll take one together,” he said, smooth as cream.

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, taken aback. Even his ears burned.

“You don’t turn water holy just by being in it, do you?” Crowley asked.

“What? No, don’t be silly. You have to bless water to--”

“Right.” Crowley stood up before he lost his nerve and wandered off. “Could’ve killed two birds with one stone, with that one,” he said over his shoulder.

Just what was Crowley implying? Get that holy water he wanted, yes, but the other “bird?” Seeing him naked? _Being_ with him naked? He stared at his tea, not daring to watch Crowley’s swaying hips as he sauntered off. Part of him blustered that it was absolutely out of the question, hopping in the bath with Crowley. But another part of him… How often had he thought about it? Being with Crowley, skin against skin again… He banished those thoughts--nothing good could come of them. But _God,_ he did think about it rather a lot.

Aziraphale swallowed a lump in his throat as he heard the rush of water from somewhere deeper in the flat. He sipped his tea nervously and frowned thoughtfully at the scattering of dust around him.


	3. Not-So-Holy Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley take a bath together.

Crowley called to him, and Aziraphale sat still for a moment longer. He was all hot and cold. His skin tingled at the prospect of being that close to Crowley. In the past two decades, there had been only a few breaches of physical contact, and never something as intense as this. He wasn’t sure he was ready to test these waters. But he _wanted_ to. Maybe it would give him clarity.

Aziraphale got to his feet and followed the sound of the filling tub. It was through Crowley’s bedroom--again, sparse. Really just a bed. A massive bed. Decadent, Aziraphale thought, unable to help a little smile. Crowley was a creature of comfort, even if he didn’t have much at his flat.

Crowley had undone his tie and the top few buttons of his shirt. Aziraphale was relieved to see that he wasn’t already buck naked. 

“You sure I won’t turn into a pile of ash if I get in?” Crowley teased, but there was a serious glint in his eyes. His hands were at the buttons of his shirt--really what he was asking was, _Is this okay?_

Aziraphale picked at the buttons on his waistcoat. “I’m not _that_ holy, Crowley,” he replied, though his eyes were on the fine black marble floor. “Now, if you were to hop in a bath with Gabriel…”

Crowley gagged at the thought. “Please, stop--I don’t even want to think about that.”

Aziraphale peeked up at Crowley. The demon wasn’t staring at him or anything. Just untucking his shirt, loosening the serpentine belt of his pants. It had been so long since Aziraphale had seen Crowley disrobe, the fashion was totally different. Something about the way his trousers hung from his narrow hips, the ripple of loose buttons and open zipper… Aziraphale licked his lips and made a conscious effort not to stare. _Of course he’s tempting. He’s a demon._

He tugged nervously at his bow tie, and coughed when he realized just how dusty even that was.

Crowley shrugged off his shirt and stepped out of his pants, kicking them aside. “Having trouble?” he asked, his voice smooth as silk. Aziraphale very nearly sent him away, but Crowley stepped right up to him, left only in his black underclothes. Crowley’s spidery pale fingers replaced his own and slid the bow-tie free.

“I can undress myself,” Aziraphale said weakly, brushing one of Crowley’s hands away.

“Or I could do it for you.”

Aziraphale couldn’t really argue with that. It did feel nice… Crowley’s fingers were deft and gentle with his clothes, not like their nights of passion so many centuries ago. He tilted his head as Crowley smoothed his shirt off his shoulders. Crowley felt compelled to kiss that exposed throat. Aziraphale felt compelled to neatly fold his clothes. Neither of them gave in to those compulsions.

“Have you gotten softer?” Crowley teased to break the tension, his fingers ghosting down Aziraphale’s side.

“Stop,” Aziraphale scolded him with a smirk.

“I mean it,” Crowley insisted.

Aziraphale just shook his head and worked open his pants. He stepped out of them and noticed Crowley was still in his socks. “You don’t wear socks in the bath, do you?”

“You take yours off?” Crowley shot back with a mock-incredulous look. He slithered out of his socks without using his hands, and removed the last bit of his clothes. “I better get in first, just in case.” He turned off the water and eased into the bath with a hiss of pleasure.

Aziraphale peeled off his socks, unable to keep his eyes off Crowley. Of course the generous, claw-foot bathtub was black, as well, and Crowley’s pale skin gleamed against it. His arms wrapped around the edges, fingers draped in toward the water. He flicked at it with an inviting smile. “Don’t worry--it’s not as hot as _I_ like it.”

Aziraphale felt more naked with Crowley in the tub and him outside it, so he made his way over. “Make room,” he muttered. Crowley only spread his legs, pinning them to either side of the tub. Aziraphale blushed and shot Crowley a look. The demon just stared back like, _What?_ With a sigh, Aziraphale delicately stepped over the rim of the tub and between Crowley’s knees. It was a sizeable bathtub, but not enough to give them any distance or avoid touching.

Crowley tried not to make it obvious how much he enjoyed the view of Aziraphale easing into the tub in front of him, but it was impossible to wipe the smirk off his face before Aziraphale glanced back at him.

“You are a deviant,” Aziraphale said flatly.

“Never claimed I wasn’t,” he defended with a devilish grin.

Aziraphale stayed seated forward, away from Crowley’s languid frame, and let the hot water seep into his bones. It felt infinitely hotter with Crowley’s legs just on either side of him, but almost… comforting. He started to wash the dust from his arms and scrubbed at his face, while Crowley just admired the soft curve of his spine. The demon slowly rose from the back of the tub, scooping water up in his hands to bring to Aziraphale’s shoulders.

Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s every movement so close to him. He didn’t flinch as he felt Crowley’s hands smooth over his shoulders, though he did peek back at him from under shy eyelashes.

“You’re becoming a bit of a deviant, yourself, Principality Aziraphale…” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale blushed and quickly moved to brace his hands on the edge of the tub as if to call all this off this instant. “I am not!” he insisted, all flush.

“Oh, shut up. I don’t mean--” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale around the waist to keep him from evacuating immediately. “I meant--all that, with the double-crossing the Nazis. Very clever.”

Aziraphale found himself with Crowley’s arms around him, blessedly warm and soft in the hot water of the bath, and he very much did not want to leave. He sighed and tried to relax. Crowley was so gentle with him. They had never been this tender before--then, it had been so heated, passionate. Stolen time.

“Well, it would have been.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, angel.” Crowley couldn’t help but be amused. He ran a hand over Aziraphale’s chest, reached up to brush his hair back from his ear.

“Don’t patronize me,” Aziraphale snapped back, but his kind face managed a pout better than a scowl.

Crowley gave him an apologetic look and hugged him closer. Aziraphale allowed himself to sink back against Crowley. Even if Crowley teased him, he’d let him sulk. At least for a bit. Sulking alone proved ultimately dissatisfying. It felt nice to have Crowley tending to him, he had to admit.

“Lean back,” Crowley told him.

“I am.”

“I mean, relax,” he urged.

Aziraphale hadn’t realized how tense he’d been holding himself against Crowley. He tried to relax, and Crowley let him slide down in his arms. Just so his feet reached the end of the tub and he could run wet fingers through his hair, trying to wash all the dust away.

“I… can’t believe you walked in there. Into a _church._ ” Aziraphale muttered, eyes drifting shut.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Aziraphale’s smile twisted and he looked up at Crowley. “You’ve done… a hell of a lot for me, Crowley,” he said quietly.

“Not nearly enough.” He ran his fingers again through the angel’s hair, coming around his ear to brush his knuckles against Aziraphale’s jaw.

Aziraphale’s gaze softened and he turned slightly, touching Crowley’s face in return.

“Can I--”

“Can I--”

Their words ran over each other. Crowley had made a point to always ask before he kissed Aziraphale, now. His way of acknowledging the position he’d put their relationship in. Aziraphale had allowed him more than once--but not always.

Aziraphale hadn’t asked. Not in almost twenty years. He suddenly looked fraught, then settled back against Crowley’s chest, his head turned away. _Best not._ Not _now_ while they were in such a position. He surprised himself by even considering it.

Crowley’s resulting sigh held such weight that it pressed on Aziraphale’s chest in guilt. The demon’s arms wrapped around him, and Aziraphale held them there. At least the angel wasn’t pushing him away. Thank the world for small favors.

“You know why I always drop in to save you.”

“Why?” Aziraphale asked, barely a breath.

“You _know_ why I do.”

“Save me the paperwork?” he whispered with a nervous laugh.

“Angel…” Crowley squeezed him close, relishing all the ways the angel was soft, the utter opposite of all his sharp angles.

Aziraphale lifted a hand out of the water, reaching blindly to trace Crowley’s jaw. His fingers traced the familiar path over the serpent mark, and into his hair, holding him tucked between his neck and shoulder.

“Yes. I know why,” he admitted.


	4. Biggest Night of the Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley get interrupted on the biggest night of the blitz by unexpected demonic company.

The beautiful thing about taking a bath with a demon was that the water never actually went cold. Even once they had washed away all the dust, they lingered. Aziraphale longed for a book and his glasses, but Crowley more than made up for it. Instead of letting the angel get caught up in his head, worrying and overthinking and feeling annoyed with how the night had gone, he talked. Crowley filled up the air with his pleasant, drawling tone, and Aziraphale had a nice, long soak.

“If you want, you can sleep on the couch,” Crowley offered.

Aziraphale looked surprised. Crowley had his hands all over him, naked in the bath! The couch..? “O-oh. Alright…”

“Jesus, angel, I’m kidding.” Crowley laughed against Aziraphale’s neck.

“H-ha.” Aziraphale found himself both relieved and unnerved. It wasn’t until he was faced with the prospect of sleeping apart from Crowley that he realized he had been looking forward to it. They had never actually spent a whole night together.

“Unless you just want to stay in the tub all night.” Crowley wouldn’t complain. Aziraphale had finally relaxed, at least for a bit.

“No. I’m getting all pruney, actually.” Aziraphale rubbed his fingers together. “Problem with these bodies--subject to so many of these little inconveniences.”

“Mmm.” Crowley could think of an inconvenience of his own body--something he had been very consciously trying  _ not  _ to let inconvenience their close quarters.

Aziraphale sat forward with a sigh and pulled himself out of the tub. He could feel Crowley’s eyes on him, and he blushed, but found he didn’t mind that smile on Crowley’s lips. He toweled himself off as Crowley rose with a reluctant groan.

“Are you… are you sure it’s alright if I stay the night?” Aziraphale asked, worry in his gaze.

Crowley didn’t brush it off lightly, but there was no question what his preference was. “I think they’ve got plenty to keep them occupied,” he suggested.

Aziraphale thought of the blitz just outside them, fire and bombs and death. Destruction. Plenty of angels out there fighting the good fight, and probably a slew of demons counteracting them. He didn’t want to be glad for the chaos, but if it meant they could steal a few hours together… He smiled at Crowley.

“Besides,” Crowley went on, his brow creased good-naturedly as he turned back to Aziraphale. God… dammit. How did Aziraphale’s smile do that to him? Just make everything fade away, like nothing else was important. For his soul, nothing else  _ was  _ important.

“Besides?” Aziraphale asked, all smile and steam-curled blond locks.

“Besides…” Crowley repeated again, then shook his head. “Er, forgot what I was gonna say…”

Once Aziraphale was dry, he miracled himself into a nightgown that was nearly as worn as his waistcoat, the tartan pattern faded.

“You don’t actually  _ need  _ clothes to sleep in. You know that, right?” Crowley commented.

Aziraphale brushed his hands down the worn front. “I like it. It’s comfortable…”

Crowley sighed and came forward to brush his fingers over the shoulder of Aziraphale’s nightgown. “I will admit… It suits you.” He wouldn’t have Aziraphale any other way--even if he would much rather they slip their naked bodies together between his sheets. “Even in your pajamas, you look like someone who runs a bookshop. Well, maybe a bookshop of yesteryear,” he teased.

Aziraphale laughed. Crowley felt relieved to see the angel in better spirits. Then those eyes turned meaningful on him. It was the second time Aziraphale had looked at him like that tonight, but the first time Crowley had seen it. He’d been too busy earlier that night climbing over the ruins of a church as he offered Aziraphale a ride home; when the world had stopped for Aziraphale and the angel was filled with such a fondness that it poured out of every fiber of his being. It was almost a misty-eyed gaze, so full of emotion brimming to the surface.

“I really can’t thank you enough, Crowley. Those books… they’re priceless.” Aziraphale took a step toward Crowley, closing the scant inches between them. “More than that. They’re… important to me. And you knew that, didn’t you?”

Nothing was as magnificent as that look in Aziraphale’s eyes. All the stars in the skies, nebulae, and distant galaxies paled in comparison.

“Well… course I did.” Crowley tried not to fall in. He’d never been good at not falling. “You love your books more than anything.”

Aziraphale’s hands came around Crowley’s neck, his brow wrought with tender affection. “Not more than  _ anything _ …” he whispered and kissed Crowley softly.

Crowley’s hands found Aziraphale’s waist and held him fast. He could have discorporated happy in that moment.

In seconds, he wished he had discorporated. His nose wrinkled and he pulled back sharply from the angel’s lips. “Shit,” he muttered. “ _ Shit. _ ” He took Aziraphale by the shoulders and drew back from him, his eyes unfocused toward the far wall. Aziraphale could see Crowley’s eyes grow a deeper, anxious yellow. 

“What?” Aziraphale breathed, his hands poised tense between them.

“Those  _ chucklefucks  _ are coming this way. Shit!” Crowley shouted. “You,” he turned his blown-out serpentine eyes on Aziraphale and his fingers dug into his shoulders. “Stay. Here. If you miracle yourself back to the bookshop, they’ll sense it and know you were here.”

“Who-?” Aziraphale’s voice caught in his throat. He could feel it, then. Something evil this way comes. “Demons.”

“Not just any fucking demons. The goddamned Dukes of Hell. Fuck.” Crowley shut his eyes and hung his head. He could feel Aziraphale tense as stone under his tight grasp. “I’ll- I’ll think of something. You just need to stay here, alright?” His eyes burned into Aziraphale.

“Oh, God. Crowley, this is awful. Terrible idea. I-”

“Got any better ones, angel?” The muscles of Crowley’s jaw stood out prominently as he grit his teeth.

Aziraphale bit his lip, his eyes searching Crowley. After a moment, he exhaled miserably and shook his head.

Crowley shot him a stern look and squeezed his shoulders to insist  _ stay here. _ With a snap, his dusty, wrinkled suit reappeared on his frame. His saunter was stiff as a march as he stalked out of the bathroom. Aziraphale felt himself tremble, and he clutched himself to still it.  _ Think very mundane thoughts,  _ he told himself as he shuffled backward, searching for something to grab on to.

“Croooowley!” Ligur howled from outside his front door.

Crowley snapped to slam his bedroom door shut, and let his wings unfurl. He channeled all his fear and rage into his singular demonic presence. The air grew thick with it, the shadows darker, and his plants trembled in abject fear. What did these fuckers want? He’d done his part--albeit small.

“Crowley!” Hastur barked as he pounded at Crowley’s door. Once Crowley was closer to the front door than he was to the angel hiding in his bathroom, he snapped his front door open.

Hastur and Ligur stumbled in as if drunk, grinning like fools. Hastur had a bottle of krauterlikor swinging between them. Their clothes were even more tattered and filthy than usual.

“What do you two want?” Crowley snapped, in no mood for revelry.

“Have you  _ been  _ out there?” Hastur cried. Joy did not suit his twisted face well. It looked painful, really.

Ligur snatched the bottle from Hastur and raised it to Crowley. “To the blitz!” He took a big swig, the foul liquor trickling down his chin. Crowley looked displeased at the liquid dripping on his floor.

Hastur stepped forward and grabbed Crowley by the shoulders, shaking him with glee. “This is the biggest night of the year!”

Crowley stared dispassionately at Hastur. “Yes, well, while you two were gallivanting all over the place,” he said as he peeled Hastur’s hands from his coat. “I’ve been busy making  _ precision  _ strikes.” He brushed off his coat to rid himself of any of Hastur’s lingering stench. “Churches,” he clarified. “The big ones.”

“Ahh, Crowley, knew we could count on you to bring out the big guns.” Ligur smacked his lips, the medicinal stench overpowering.

Crowley’s lip curled, his wings arched in a predatory way, taking up the whole of the foyer.

“Oh, the big guns,” Hastur giggled. “Yes. Yes.  _ Big  _ guns.” He wrung his hands.

“C’mon, then, Crowley.” Ligur sloshed the bottle toward him. “Drink and be merry.”

“We were in the neighborhood. Thought we’d… drop in, see what trouble you were getting into…” Hastur was giddy with all the sirens singing outside.

“As you can see, I’ve done my part.”

“We’re on our way to collapse some of the Underground,” Ligur said, eyes bulging.

“Light the Channel on fire,” Hastur hissed with unconcealed excitement.

“Sounds great,” Crowley said in a flat growl.

“C’mon. Rare that we get up to no good together. You have all the fun up here.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing.” Crowley crossed his arms over his chest. “This is just… everyday stuff for me.” He waved a hand casually. “Bo-ring. Ho-hum. No--why don’t you two…” His face pinched in a forced smile, “Go paint the town red.”

Hastur looked confused and glanced at Ligur. Ligur looked doubly confused, one eye squinted and the other wide as he turned his head. Had he heard Crowley right? 

Crowley stared at their dumbstruck faces, growing more irritated by the moment. Better to keep their spirits up, distract them with destruction, and get them the fuck off his doorstep. “Go! Go, do whatever it is! You’re wasting precious earth time!” He waved them back, out of his flat. “Have fun with your little Nazi toys. Hail Satan!”

And with that, the door slammed shut.

“Wot’s it mean?” Ligur asked, squinting up at Hastur. “Paint… the town… red?”

Hastur scratched at his scalp. “Dunno,” he muttered.

“Ahhh… you know what’s red?” Ligur snapped, licking his lips eagerly.

“What?” Hastur asked, irritated that Ligur had caught on before he did. He snatched the bottle from him.

“ _ Blood. _ ” Ligur’s laughter shrieked through the hallway. Hastur held the bottle against his lips thoughtfully, then split into a grin. “Blood,” he repeated, and joined Ligur in cackling. Their laughter joined the wail of air sirens as they stumbled down the stairs and back out onto the street, where they spread their wings and soared into the blitz.


	5. Stay With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley let too much of the demon out and Aziraphale needs comfort.

Crowley held his door shut, palms and forehead pressed against the monolithic stone. He could hear Hastur and Ligur shrieking with delight on the other side, and his demonic fury burned brighter. A social call?! In the blitz?! As he heard their laughter descend down the stairs, he slammed his fist against the door so hard, it echoed throughout the flat.

“And don’t come back!” he screamed at the door. His heart was pounding, wings tense and twitching as he collapsed into the solid stone. His breath came ragged and anxious as darkness emanated from him in waves.

“Fuck,” he sighed and pushed back from the door. Every muscle that had been so relaxed by his bath with Aziraphale was wound tighter than a spring. “I need a fucking drink,” he muttered and stalked back into his apartment. He didn’t even bother with the formality of fetching the bottle from the cupboard, just made it appear in one hand, two glasses in the other.

He opened the bedroom door and felt himself shiver. Way too close. _Way_ too close. “Fuckers just came by to invite me to a party--the nerve,” Crowley said loudly as he stormed over to the bathroom door.

Aziraphale was huddled on the floor, knees to his chest. He looked pale. Unwell. All of his usual cherubic color had drained from his face and he was trembling.

“Oh, Satan.” Crowley dropped the bottle. By some miracle, it didn’t break. He could care less. He hadn’t realized-- Without another thought, he dropped his wings. Every fiber of his being strained as he sucked the darkness back in. It ached, filled him up in a way that scooped everything else out, cold and empty and vile. He had let all of that out, to permeate the very air around him, to mask the holy presence. But in his panic, he hadn’t thought about how it would affect the poor angel he was trying to hide.

With a grimace, Crowley strode over to Aziraphale. The angel instinctively flinched away from him. Had Crowley been any other demon in his state, brimming with concentrated demonic energy, he would have felt nothing. But because of who he was, and who Aziraphale was to him, it hurt.

It was that little spark of turmoil, of pain, that made Crowley Crowley again. It took Aziraphale less than a second to recover from his body’s natural recoil from the forces of darkness, and reach out for him. He threw his arms around the demon and hugged him desperately.

The tension melted out of Crowley, and he held Aziraphale back. The poor thing was shaking like a leaf in his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Crowley whispered, smoothing his hands over Aziraphale’s back. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Aziraphale warmed under Crowley’s touch, became more solid and steady. His breath came in gasps, and then weak, tearless sobs. He crumpled weakly against Crowley’s chest, holding tight to his lapels. He wasn’t weeping because he was scared. He was weeping because it was so _sad._ Pain, regret, fear, anger, disdain, longing… All of Crowley’s dark feelings, the emotions that fueled his demonic power, had flooded around him. It was bad enough to be choked by that demonic presence, but worse still to be exposed to Crowley’s innermost personal demons.

“It’s… it’s okay,” Crowley tried to assure Aziraphale. He rubbed at the angel’s arm, more anxious than comforting. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He looked down at the mess of curls pressed to his heart. “Aren’t you?” he whispered. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale let out a shuddering breath. He pressed his cheek firmly against Crowley’s chest, forcing back the sadness that sank in his heart. Finally, he looked up at Crowley and nodded slowly.

Crowley let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He kissed Aziraphale’s brow and hugged him close once more. “I’m… _so_ sorry,” he repeated, chest swelling with emotion as he pulled back to look into Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale sniffed and somehow found the strength to smile. He wiped at his eyes. “No, no--don’t be sorry. It was a stroke of genius, to… to…” Aziraphale’s expression faltered as he looked at Crowley. God, he was in so much pain. All the time. His very existence... 

“No, nonono, don’t cry, please…” Crowley begged. He couldn’t stand to see Aziraphale cry. He wrapped him up again, rocking him desperately.

Aziraphale clung to him, wishing he could fill him up, light all those dark spaces, alleviate his suffering. That angelic desire radiated off of him, golden, shining tendrils of care and healing light creeping across Crowley’s chest.

To be honest, it stung. Crowley’s fingers tightened on Aziraphale and he grit his teeth. The more angelic energy that flowed through Aziraphale, surely the better the angel would feel. Fend off all that nastiness he had put out in the air. It was like a sunburn--Crowley would live.

“D’you… want a drink?” Crowley asked, his voice strained.

Aziraphale came back to himself and realized his radiance. “Oh, goodness. Now look at what I’ve done.” He backed away from Crowley. 

The demon smiled through gritted teeth. “It’s okay. Turnabout’s fair play.” He scratched at his neck, pale skin flushed and irritated. “ _I_ need a drink,” he groused and stood up. “C’mon,” he beckoned, holding out a hand for Aziraphale. The angel took it and stood up.

Crowley collected the bottle from the floor and dragged his feet into the bedroom. He slumped on the edge of the bed and yanked the cork out. Forget the glasses. He took a slug of whiskey from the bottle--a little too generous--and then held it out to Aziraphale as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Aziraphale took the bottle gratefully and joined Crowley on the edge of the bed. He looked small with his bare ankles and feet dangling off the bed, but tortured as he took a drink of whiskey right from the bottle. His gaze was vacant, focused on a distant point a thousand miles away.

Crowley put his head in his hands, defeated. Then he growled with sudden fury and sprung to his feet. “Just _one_ night! Just one fucking night!” he shouted.

Aziraphale looked on sadly. “They would’ve killed you, Crowley,” he croaked. “Destroyed--whatever…” He shook his head and took another drink of whiskey. The burn helped him cope with Crowley’s pain still crawling under his skin. “Your side--”

“They’re not on _my_ side!” Crowley hissed through gritted teeth. His eyes were still wild, burning full yellow licked with flames of orange. “My side!” he shouted with a humorless laugh. “I’m sure _your_ side would have a few choice words for you, _fraternizing_ with a demon during the blitz!”

Aziraphale winced, shrinking under Crowley’s tirade.

“You’re not on their side, either.” Crowley pointed at Aziraphale sharply, his eyes wide and serious. “We’re not on anybody’s side, Aziraphale. We’re on _our_ side.”

The angel’s eyes widened in shock. He was still for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. “ _Our_ side?” His eyes narrowed. “Crowley… listen to yourself. There is no _our_ side…” He struggled to find the words to talk Crowley down from this madness. “We can’t have a side. We’re--”

Crowley let out another directionless growl and tore at his hair.

Aziraphale cradled the whiskey in his lap and tried to hold out for Crowley’s mood to break. There were two sides. Heaven and Hell. That was that. Heaven was righteous and good, and Hell was sinister and evil. Crowley was--well, he was Fallen. There was nothing he could do about that. And he couldn’t control Crowley’s actions--his good deeds no more than his ranting and suffering. Aziraphale may have bent the rules, but--it was all for the greater good. It… it all balanced out.

He might’ve been a bad angel once… When he was led into temptation… But he was reformed. He had been commended for his good deeds during the French Revolution. He lived a quiet life, doing good where he could. He was a good angel, wasn’t he?

He felt conflicted. And sick. He put the whiskey down on the floor and wiped the taste from his mouth. It wasn’t helping. There couldn’t be an _our_ side. Couldn’t. Impossible. He shook his head, his hands clenching at the fabric at his knees. Was _he_ doing this to Crowley? Making him suffer for his friendship?

Crowley snatched the bottle from near his ankle and took another long drink, still pacing like a caged animal. “We are on our side, angel. You know it just as well as I do. It’s how we’ve survived this long with this bloody trudge of an _Ineffable Plan,_ ” he sneered. “You know it’s fucking rigged!” His eyes blazed. “It’s all fucked. All fucked. The whole bleeding world, Heaven, Hell… It’s just all some fucking game!” He swept his arm wide, staring out at nothing.

Then he turned to Aziraphale, and for a moment, he looked scared. He fell to his knees in front of Aziraphale, put down the whiskey and clasped his hands. “And look at us. We’re stuck here. Right in the middle of it. Just two little insignificant specks. Law of- of probability, that… that at least one bad one in the bunch, right? Er--good one, or… I don’t fucking know…”

Aziraphale ached for Crowley.

“God made that one, right?” Crowley hid his face against Aziraphale’s knees. “All the bleeding… laws. Probability… just as… _ineffable_ as gravity, right?” His shoulders heaved with pained breath. “Why can’t there be our side?”

Aziraphale freed one of his hands to place it on Crowley’s head, stroking his hair. Crowley… Poor Crowley… He opened his mouth, but he could barely catch his breath, so choked with emotion. His unlikely friend was spinning out of control. He was losing his grip on reality. He couldn’t just _choose_ to be on his own side. Aziraphale didn’t know how to stop him from spiraling. Except to remove the problem from the equation: himself.

He knew it would hurt. It would hurt both of them. But none of this would have happened if he hadn’t been here tonight. Crowley wouldn’t be so tortured, so frightened, if he didn’t have to worry about him. It was better if all Crowley had to worry about was himself.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale whispered, his voice thick. “We… we need to stop this.” His throat tightened.

Crowley pressed his cheek against Aziraphale’s thighs, clutched at his nightgown. “Stop _them._ Not us…” he mumbled like an obstinate child.

“I… I won’t leave you, Crowley. Not completely.”

“Don’t say it,” Crowley croaked.

“We should give each other some space. For the greater good--”

“Don’t say it!” Crowley cried and pounded a fist against Aziraphale’s leg.

Aziraphale sighed and just stroked Crowley’s hair.

Crowley knew Aziraphale was right. Half right, at least. If Aziraphale didn’t see _their_ side, then there was only one option. Keep their distance. Do their jobs. When it made the most sense, collaborate. But their friendship was doomed if they kept this up.

“Stay with me…” Crowley whispered, clinging to Aziraphale’s legs. “Just for tonight.”

Aziraphale didn’t think it was a good idea. His silence spoke louder than the words that failed to form in his mouth.

“There’s a zillion demons out there tonight.” Crowley sniffed and wiped at his face. He pulled himself together enough to lift his head and look imploringly at the angel.

“What if they come back?” Aziraphale barely dared to breathe.

“Then I’ll fucking discorporate them myself,” Crowley said stubbornly.

Aziraphale laughed, but it rang hollow. His eyes were sad and tired. He pulled Crowley by the arms. Without a word, Crowley crawled onto the bed with him. There was nothing left to say. Clinging to each other, Crowley and Aziraphale moved to the middle of the enormous bed, as if it could swallow them up and hide them from the outside world. Aziraphale prayed for Crowley, curled up against his empty chest. Crowley barely slept, and held onto Aziraphale for dear life.


	6. The Cancelled Caper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This part closes with a growing distance between Aziraphale and Crowley--but Aziraphale continues to, in his little way, watch over Crowley.

Crowley had no small hand in the 1960s. He was tired of wars and destruction, tired of playing for points Down Below by taking credit for all the suffering. It was time for a revolution. It was time for some fun. If he couldn’t escape the drag of existence with his best friend, he was going to have to foster a world he could stand to live in.

He liked nightclubs. He would take credit for nightclubs. The kind with tables all crowded together where bartenders made the rounds with trays full of cocktails and whiskey, and live music experimenting with bold new sounds and melodies, and dancing. Lots of dancing. Got to have the dancing.

He liked the fashion. He’d take credit for that, too. Sleek, clean lines. No more fucking buttons. Shorter skirts and higher boots, boys in high-waisted shorts and rollerskates, shirts made of netting and conspicuous holes in all a manner of garment. More skin, more freedom. And love. Lots of love. Almost an indecent amount of love flowing around.

The world felt more saturated in the pocket of Soho Crowley called home. Neon signs, bright splashes of color on the facades, psychedelic murals on everything from buildings to cars to the very people themselves. Aziraphale might have tut-tutted about the number of strip clubs, sex shops, and nightclubs of dubious moral fiber so close to his tidy, old-fashioned bookshop, but Crowley was thriving. If Aziraphale could create a fortress to the past, his safe haven, Crowley would build his kingdom of temptation to suit himself.

It was easier to keep themselves apart with these territory lines drawn. Crowley lived in indulgence, and Aziraphale kept to the tidier neighborhood up the road. That wasn’t to say they didn’t see each other on occasion, but those meetings in St. James Park were few and far between. Having their own, separate realms kept them plenty busy.

He thought about running a nightclub. It would be something to keep his hands busy. But he found the actual running of a nightclub cumbersome. Most nights he just wanted to slip into his favorite bar and have a few drinks, soak up the low-key sin and deviance of the young folk. Watch them dance, fall in love, break each others hearts--over and over again. Hundreds of different faces, different words; but it was all the same. He found it cathartic to watch the mortals stumble through the mire. So fleeting for them. Not like his six thousand year heartache.

He found other things to keep his hands busy. That night in 1941 stuck with him. Not just because it had been the last time he had Aziraphale in his arms, nor because things had nearly gone to absolute shit--though those things haunted him, too--but the point of the night for him wasn’t the blitz or his risky walk through a church. It was the holy water. Just sitting there. No guards, no holy barrier erected around it. Well, not that he could see.

But he couldn’t just hot-foot his way into a church and scoop it out of the font. Too dangerous, even for him. He’d need help. If Aziraphale wouldn’t help him--which was totally out of the question, now--he’d just have to turn to the most plentiful workforce in a demon’s arsenal: humans.

Why not have a little fun with it? He always liked those James Bond films. Classy gent of few words. Not too far off from him, he thought. The sixties had bred a coolness in him, perhaps gleaned by the stars of the day, or perhaps influenced the other way around. Truth be told, he was sure his aloofness had something to do with the empty, Aziraphale-shaped hole in his chest. Without the angel around, even all the bright colors and vibrant youth felt drab. His dark glasses tinted everything with shades of gray. Maybe he should try those rose colored glasses…

He had networks all over Soho. Finding the right people was a simple matter as knowing the right people. Once he got it in his head that he was going to execute this caper, it took all of a week to recruit the right people.

And so, the crew met for the first time all together in The Dirty Donkey, one of his usual haunts. The back rooms were especially private, and the main room turned into a raucous dancefloor after dark. The band was particularly good that night, meaning everyone was packed onto the dancefloor and the back room was almost vacant. Except for Crowley and his associates.

Sally and Dangerous Spike were good kids. Good and discreet. Not their first rodeo. As long as the money was in it for them, they’d pull it off without a hitch. Then there was that newcomer… Mr.--no, Lance Corporal Shadwell. He was an odd one, to be sure. Crowley had fleeting concerns that his interest in the occult might hit too close to home. On the other hand, having a contact who did not need to be convinced of the existence of the supernatural could prove quite useful.

Everything was set in place. Now all he had to do was set this carefully planned machine in motion. Just another few days--Monday night. Monday night he would have his insurance and rest a bit easier. 

Crowley slipped into the Bentley, mulling over the strange offer from the strange young Mr. Shadwell. His gaze passed over the car and he found Aziraphale seated in the passenger seat.

Aziraphale’s expression was almost reluctant. It had been a while since they’d seen each other.

After a beat, “What are you doing here?” He tried to mask his surprise, and the lightness in his chest, seeing the angel.

“Needed a word with you,” Aziraphale said simply, eyes scanning the scandalous street.

“What?” Crowley perked up a bit.

“I work in Soho, I hear things.” He pursed his lips. “I hear that you are setting up a… caper,” he said as lightly as he could, trying to diminish the implications. “To rob a church.”

Crowley turned away. Of course Aziraphale had heard.

“Crowley, it’s too dangerous.” Aziraphale’s voice grew softer. “Holy water won’t just…” Concern stiffened his voice, “kill your body. It will destroy you  _ completely. _ ” They’d been over this, but Crowley was unwilling to let it go.

“You told me what you think. A hundred and five years ago.”

“And I haven’t changed my mind…”

“And again, what--forty, forty-five years ago?”

“I can’t have you risking your life,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Not even for something dangerous.”

Crowley stared listlessly out the windscreen. Did Aziraphale just come to give him a lecture? Great. Just the occasion he wanted to see Aziraphale for. It hurt bad enough to keep his distance--why couldn’t they at least enjoy it when they did have these clandestine meetings?

“So…” Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. He was really going to do this. He still had his misgivings. He had been holding onto it for months, now, going back and forth about whether it was really the best idea to give it to Crowley. He steeled himself and lifted the tartan thermos, trying to quiet the quaver in his voice. “You can call off the robbery.” His eyes flickered over Crowley’s face. “Don’t go unscrewing the cap,” he murmured.

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, then at the thermos. He hesitated, but only for a second before reaching to delicately take the thermos. His fingers brushed against Aziraphale’s as the angel handed him the thing he had been prepared to risk his very existence to obtain.

“This is the real thing?” he asked in a low voice. He couldn’t believe Aziraphale would actually do this for him. After all this time. And it was so… mundane. Just a tartan thermos with the most dangerous relic sloshing around inside it.

“The holiest,” Aziraphale replied, an anxious twist in his gut.

“After everything you said…” 

Aziraphale nodded, too pained to look at Crowley any longer. Was this really the right thing to do? But he trusted Crowley--this was for his own protection. Against  _ them. _

Crowley studied the thermos, the manifestation of his fears realized, the thing that could protect him from his own side, were they to discover his dealings with a certain angel. He didn’t know what to say. “Should I say… thank you?” he asked delicately.

“Better not.” Aziraphale breathed. His lip twitched, but failed to find his usual reassuring smile. He’d just given Crowley the means to destroy himself--even if he was just the slightest bit careless with it… 

“Well, could I… drop you anywhere?” It had been ages since he had driven the angel around. Ages since they’d spoken more than a few words to each other.

“No. Thank you,” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley couldn’t hide his long face. He wanted to thank Aziraphale somehow--even if that just meant spending more than a few sparse minutes together.

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed,” Aziraphale smiled best he could, but dread still loomed over him. “Perhaps we could… I don’t know.. Go for a picnic.” Aziraphale’s eyes gazed vaguely at Crowley’s hands, avoiding his eyes. He thought of their times together, before things had felt so dire. So complicated. “Dine at the Ritz.” He dared a look at Crowley’s face, and it said all the unspoken things he couldn’t say.

Aziraphale hadn’t suggested such a light-hearted outing in years. Those days were behind them.

“I’ll give you a lift,” Crowley insisted. “Anywhere you want to go.”  _ We could just run away. Right now,  _ Crowley thought. How he wished Aziraphale would keep that smile on his lips and tell him,  _ “Let’s go away together.”  _

Aziraphale couldn’t pull his eyes off the demon who spoke so softly to him. He could hear the undercurrent in his words. No. No, it was much too dangerous. Already, Aziraphale had done something much too dangerous in just coming here, in giving Crowley this surefire destruction in a thermos. His heart ached, but he couldn’t stay any longer. That look in Crowley’s eyes frightened him. Just as Crowley had not forgotten about the holy water, not in a hundred years, Aziraphale knew Crowley had not wavered from the idea that there could be an  _ our  _ side.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” Aziraphale could hide his expression with a neutral mask, but he could not change the sadness in his eyes.

Crowley watched Aziraphale go. Out of the Bentley, and out of his life, again. He looked at the thermos and shivered, placing it as carefully as one might an explosive on the seat beside him. 

What did it mean? A flutter rattled around in his chest like a caged bird. Aziraphale had been nothing if not professional in these years since the singular night they had held each other until dawn. He’d never offered up anything. Hardly a word about his life, about himself. He would ask Crowley in that prim, distant tone so full of unspoken words,  _ “How are you doing?” _ And Crowley would give his stock answer that covered everything from heartache to anger to despair,  _ “Fine.” _

And now… after all this time, after everything he had said, every time he had warned him, begged him to reconsider… Crowley’s spirits rose, but the feeling was fleeting. He couldn’t even ask Aziraphale why or what changed--the angel wouldn’t answer him. He would deflect and disappear. “Strictly professional” was the theme of this new chapter in their friendship.

But then-- _ why?  _ If it was all supposed to be strictly professional, why would Aziraphale finally relent? Of course all of this, the whole bloody keeping their distance thing, was to keep them both out of the crosshairs of their respective sides. Maybe he wasn’t doing such a good job of that, what with his new interpretation of what being a demon meant. All this counter-culture and free love. Wasn’t exactly demonic, was it?

It wasn’t that. Aziraphale marked the deviance of his little neighborhood of Soho. Had to count for something if an angel thought it was naughty.

He’d rescued Aziraphale countless times from being discorporated or getting into trouble. Aziraphale was just better at keeping him out of trouble. Before he bungled up his hare-brained scheme with a gang of mere mortals, Aziraphale cut the plot off at the head. Aziraphale didn’t take chances.

Crowley smiled a little at the tartan thermos. He leaned toward the steering wheel and peered out the passenger door. Much to his surprise, Aziraphale was stood across the street. The neon sign above him flickered, illuminating his face, kissing his blond curls with ethereal light. Just for a moment, Crowley saw him looking his way. Just for a moment, Aziraphale looked like the very first time Crowley had ever seen him. Radiating with holy light in robes of pure white, shyly expressing his gratitude with a nervous smile.

Crowley let out a heavy sigh and sank back into his seat. He wanted to run out to him, just grab him and run. Run until they couldn’t run anymore. Go away together. But Aziraphale had already crushed those hopes tonight.

He started the Bentley and pulled out onto the street. In seconds, the Bentley was roaring down the lane, screaming for the demon who did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing along with my little tale! Another pining, star-crossed end for our lovers!
> 
> And so closes this part. The next part will be the final, official part of the series that I have planned. A happy ending?? What??
> 
> Follow me on Twitter @vol_ctrl to keep up to date with my postings (and see the ridiculous amount of other Ineffable Husbands content I retweet).

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna keep up with me, get up to the minute updates on chapters, and see what other silly shit I'm posting, follow me on Twitter @vol_ctrl
> 
> New chapters drop M W F!


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